


The Birth of a New Creature

by Ektal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crime Scenes, Dreams, First Kiss, Graphic Description of Corpses, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 13:36:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15686475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ektal/pseuds/Ektal
Summary: Will's mind is trying to acknowledge and accept his dark side. Hannibal is fascinated.In the meantime two bodies are found and Will has to help the FBI catch the killer.





	The Birth of a New Creature

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta thecrimsondagger for her great work. And thanks to Shilyss for the inspiration.

_It was as if he hadn't opened his eyes: only darkness surrounded him._

_He could feel the soft, cold touch of the wind. Some curls, drenched in sweat, stuck to his forehead, his temples and his nape. The sound of the leaves cracking under his feet and the branches being lashed by the breeze, the silence of the night and the whispers that only darkness could produce brushed his ears. The smell of musk, of the earth wet by humidity teased his nostrils. Every sense was flooded by stimuli, much sharper than they were gentle._

_He should have felt terrified. He should have felt lost. And, in some part, he did. His body was flooded by shivers, not all of them caused by the breaths of air that sneaked under his clothes; his fingers moved by themselves, as if looking for purchase; his eyes peered far away, to chase a gleam, some faint light, some shape that could give him stability in the sea of ever moving shadows. But at the same time he felt pleasure, he almost enjoyed letting himself float, drift, be carried away by the waves drawn by the roots which came out of the ground. He knew that all of that was a passing sensation, that when his journey through that dark forest was over and he was out in the rays of the sun his survival instincts would let him recognize all the dangers which in that moment he didn't perceive, left neglected and wanted to ignore. In that precise moment, it didn't matter. He felt light, devoid of thoughts, his mind wandered everywhere and nowhere at all, collected all the information offered to him, but held no urgency to catalogue every datum, create relations or connections. He was surrounded. And at that time, like never before, he felt so free._

_Then a scream tore the soothing scenery._

_It came from close, very close, a few meters ahead of him._

_He took a step. The dry twigs broke under the pressure of his foot. Then another step. To his right the black stag mimed his every movement._

_He travelled that distance with the slowness of a new-born, astonished and excited to be able to use a new method of locomotion, still unsure about its use, insecure about the strength of his legs or about his sense of balance, but with his mind already turned to everything that this new capability would let him discover, already anxious to develop fully that new ability and start to run as soon as possible. He weighed his movements, tried not to make any noise, to make his presence imperceptible._

_He saw a man abandoned with his back laying on the trunk of a mighty tree._

_Immediately a metallic smell pervaded his senses._

_He approached him further. His lacerated shirt let him glimpse a long gash on the stomach, from the navel up to the middle of the clavicles. It was a neat, clean cut. A dense liquid dropped slowly on the ground, to water the mushrooms and the sparse strands of grass._

_He stretched out his hand towards the man. He wanted in any way to stop the bleeding. That man could not die._

Not now. It was not a fate he deserved. In that way he would have fainted in no time, he would have lost consciousness and his heart would have fallen to sleep along with him. It did not have to happen. He had to stay awake. He had to keep feeling. Feeling his life sliding on his skin, his flesh burning in contact with the wind, his limbs becoming weaker, faded, seeing them lose their colour and blend in with the white of the shirt. He had to keep his eyes open, focused on his executioner, on the dirty red hands, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the trousers stained with mud, the face decorated by spatters. His pupils dilated by fear had to keep looking in those dilated by excitement, which observed him from above, forcing him to the ground. He had to keep on shaking, waiting for the next blow, the next cut, the next meeting between his skin and the small blade which, threateningly, was pointed towards him.

 

 

Will woke up to the sound of the phone and the barks of his dogs. All his pets were alert, gathered around his bed and looking towards their master; some of them sniffing at the wet sheets.

He grabbed the phone, identifying the caller ID.

Jack.

He pressed the green button and brought the phone to his ear, while at the same time covering his eyes with his arm: the light entering through the window blinding him and worsening his already present headache. By now he could no longer remember when the last time was that he had woken up from a long sleep devoid of nightmares, to the sweet peeping of the birds and the feeble rays of the sun skimming his face, without the sensation that someone was trying to hammer a nail in his temples, blow after blow, unceasingly.

"Where the hell are you?" the voice on the other side of the phone thundered.

"Good morning, Jack." he answered, still half asleep.

"Good evening, you mean. I've been trying to contact you all morning. Heck, I spent more time talking to your voice mail than reading the last scientific reports. Did you forget our meeting? Or maybe you just don't remember that there is a criminal walking free out there?"

"Don't worry, I have the crime scene printed on my mind. I spent ten minutes yesterday imagining killing that woman and the remaining hours trying to put myself in the shoes of that madman. So, no, Jack, I haven't forgotten anything at all. Rather, I'd pay to delete some images from my memory..."

"I need you memory, I need your mind and I need your imagination. So forget whatever you're currently doing and come here. Now."

Will hung up the phone.

He continued a moment longer to wallow in the damp sheets. Jack's voice reverberating loudly in his head. He held his boss in very high regard and admired his determination, but in the last period he could not help but be affected by his behaviour, by his increasingly urgent demands, by his sheer lack of tact. He realized that concentration and speed were an important part of their work, and the fact that Jack expected a high level of efficiency was comprehensible. But to Will it seemed as if in the last few months all the worst criminals of Baltimore and the entire Maryland had decided to wake up, work together and attack in mass. He had no time to analyse one crime scene and immerse himself in its creator before his mind had to immediately penetrate the recesses and the madness of the next criminal. And Jack's expectations became higher and higher. If it was true that Will was his fragile teacup, Jack did nothing but drink tea, every day, very hot tea, having seconds, with no time to wash it clean: residues accumulating at every sip on its walls and bottom, thin brown lines in contrast with white; subtle cracks surfaced, webs made of corpses, mutilations and injuries.

Will stretched out his hand to fondle the soft fur of Winston, who had rested his head on the edge of the bed. He loved to feel the strands of fur creep in between his fingers, tickle his palm. With his nails he massaged that compliant little head and he almost felt it melt; Winston closed his eyes and let himself be lulled by his master's attentions. For a few minutes Will forgot everything about blood, victims, responsibility, expectations. He focused only on that soft fur. He let himself be anchored. With a few gestures, he gave to his dog everything he needed, a little bit of comfort, a little bit of bliss, the reassurance that his master was there with them, awake, not lost in his mind's shadows, not shaking, with his eyes moving out of control behind his closed eyelids. And Winston asked for nothing more than that.

This was what he loved about his dogs: they never asked for more than what he could offer them. They were by his side when he felt lost, they cheered him up when he returned home after a heavy working day and they received him waving their tails to the wind, clinging to his trousers, licking at his hands. And all of this in exchange for some food, some outdoor walking, some cuddles. It was simple to understand their needs and satisfy them. There was no need to use math, analyse all those variables that composed human behaviour. They were a simple linear equation: there was a single solution to every single need.

When Buster started to scratch the edge of the bed with his small nails and to whine, followed immediately by the other dogs in a tenuous chorus of supplication, Will understood it was time to give them some food.

He filled their bowls, gave them water and opened the door.

Then he focused on himself.

When he looked into the mirror, he saw the face of a tired man. His blue eyes were framed by a pair of dark, deep circles; they looked like two feeble lights in the pits of a cave. His cheeks seemed more hollow and covered by an unkempt beard, his forehead was furrowed by wrinkles, some of them recent and yet already deep. All in all it was a worn-out face, devoid of colour, adorned only by some curls that fell down here and there, plain and messy. He felt thin. He was scared he would break at any moment. But he had to go on. He did it for his colleagues, he did it for the victims. He did it to put behind bars those beasts who dared to disguise as human beings and walk among people, unseen. He did it because he couldn't bear to leave them on the loose, let them commit their crimes unpunished, let them dirty the world with their impure acts.

_He did it because their designs repulsed him. Because they lacked beauty and elegance. Because those corpses were nothing but a set of cuts, lacerations, gashes; they didn't matter. Those beasts dared to sacrifice a life without doing it justice, without transforming it, without giving it a meaning: they couldn't elevate it. They had wasted its form, had wasted its colour. They failed as sculptors and as painters, too. They weren't worthy of decorating the world with their low-level handiwork._

Will woke up. He took his eyes off the blue ones that the mirror returned to him and lifted his hand to massage his temples.

He needed an aspirin.

 

 

"How did the conference go?"

"I would more accurately define it as a convention of people fond of criminology, dressed up as lawyers, teachers, psychologists and various law enforcement, intent on exchanging opinions created by another's brain and then made theirs regarding trite and unfounded arguments. With a use of the language quite questionable, if I may add."

Hannibal let slip a small smile of consent, joined by a flickering light in his eyes to suggest his amusement. He himself had to attend a number of conventions and very few of them ever turned out to be worthy of his time. And even less were the people actually worthy of his attention. He still couldn't understand how such people, devoid of any oestrus or idea, managed to move up in their field.

"A flower excels in its beauty when it is surrounded by weeds." he commented, crossing his legs and relaxing in the armchair "It's the comparison that makes it stand out."

"Among a field of weeds and thorns the challenge is not easy, not to mention that it could easily die, deprived of water and the heat from the sun."

"Do you feel deprived, Will?"

"Suffocated is a more suitable adjective."

Hannibal let the silence ask the question. It was like this with Will: there was no need to talk, to express all their thoughts by voice. They shared their own language, which went over words and over gestures. Their conversations were based on glances and unsaid sentences; they were like the score of a melody, in which the notes created the sound and the intonation, but the pauses gave it rhythm, punctuated the motif, gave it severity and expression.

Will laid his elbows on his knees, took off his glasses and placed his face into his hands.

"Every one of them wants to take the upper hand, breathe my air, use my sight, and take possession of my body. I feel their thoughts, their desires; I start failing to distinguish their will from mine. It gets more and more difficult to look and not be overwhelmed. I feel my strength weakening..."

"You are afraid to one day find yourself analysing a crime scene, only then to find out that you are its creator."

Will lowered his hands slowly. His eyes settled on his psychiatrist's dark, deep, magnetic ones. Without breaking his gaze, he straightened, reclined calmly on the backrest and grabbed with force the armrest, so much that the furniture would have screamed if it were able to.

"The last body was one of a woman, around thirty, good-looking, one of those women who can afford whichever suitor they desire and whose ego increases with every new compliment given. She was found at the periphery of a park. A deep cut divided her chest in two, a big hook was stuck in her throat. Revenge. Or spite. The murderer had been lured; she'd indulged him and he'd believed her, until another suitor had shown up, richer or more charming, and she'd left him. A simple crime of passion."

"He wanted to let her feel on her skin what he went through. And he used a fish as a metaphor. Adequate."

"But all of it was wrong." Will observed.

His mind went back to the clearing, to the corpse laying on the ground; her legs were opened, her arms bent untidily over her head. A pool of blood was the background to the soft blonde curls, to the classy clothes, to the purse fallen and forsaken half a meter from the body; its content spread on the grass, like candies beaten out from a piñata. He focused on her injuries, the small tentative cuts which graced here and there the tanned skin, on the cracks on the lips and the smudged lipstick, which the culprit had ruined when he had tried to stick his hand down her throat. It was grotesque.

Hannibal accompanied Will's brooding with another silence and focused on the blue eyes still fixed on his: they were observing him, but at the same time they were scanning something far, far away. Will was reliving the crime scene. He could notice it by the dilated pupils, the slightly parted mouth, and the stiff fingers. His Adam's apple moved a couple of times, with difficulty, as if Will had to swallow something that didn't meet his taste. His eyebrows were lowered, his lower eyelids tightened slightly, creating little wrinkles beneath his eyes. His look had sharpened. Will curled his lip in distaste. His grasp on the armrest had become even more lethal.

"It was sloppy work. The body was covered with useless wounds: they had not been inflicted with purpose, but because of fear and inexperience. And the main cut, which should have weakened the victim thanks to the excessive loss of blood and which should have been the only clean, firm line, was instead an ensemble of consecutive gashes poorly connected together. The murderer pounced on the victim with such inexperience that he damaged the internal organs, thus leading her to a much quicker death. Not to mention the hook, barely stuck in the mucosa."

Will closed his eyes and let himself go.

_"I drug her, preventing her from rebelling, but without letting her fall into the sweet warmth of sleep: she has to suffer, like she made me suffer; she has to bear witness to her defeat, her decline, like she attended to mine. I lay her on the grass, with her arms along her hips and her legs stretched out, her feet tied up and pointing outwards: a beached mermaid, unable to move her tail. I comb her hair and arrange them in a radial pattern, around her face, to underline her beauty and show off those curls that first attracted me. I open her mouth. Carefully, without ruining her makeup, I thrust the hook as far as possible, to where my hand can reach without suffocating her, and plant it forcibly into her flesh: now that I have caught my prey, I will not let her go. I take the knife and cut carefully at her dress to reveal her sinuous body; I don't strip her: a fish needs its skin, it protects it during the cooking, and those clothes are her armour. I carve her. One single, precise, tidy cut, deep enough to open up her stomach, but not enough to damage her organs: without the risk to ruin the meat. She has to endure every handling, unable even to emit any sound. She will wither slowly, weeping salty tears from her eyes and pouring blood down her hips. With every breath she feels the wound open and close, a fiery line; in her mind the war breaks out, the war between her survival instinct, which pushes her lungs to continue in their work, and the desire to run away from the pain, keep her breath and let herself pass out. When her eyelids start to waver on the edge of oblivion, only then I insert my arm in her stomach and start to cleanse her of her bowels. She wakes up and reaches the peak of her suffering. It lasts only a few seconds, but to her they feel like an eternity. I abandon her there, emptied like she had emptied me, letting the sun continue her slow cooking."_

When Will resurfaced from the meanderings of his imagination, he found himself pierced by the look of the man sitting in front of him: it was as if Hannibal's eyes had lost all of their colour, his irises narrowed to a single, thin, golden thread, the frame of a picture devoid of any shade.

He understood he had spoken aloud. His first instinct was to put on his glasses, even if that barrier had always proven to be useless against the psychiatrist's scrutinizing gaze; but that need was nipped in the bud. In those eyes he recognized surprise, but without any sign of revulsion; more than aversion, he read wonder; more than judgment, comprehension.

Like never before he was ashamed of his own words, and at the same time he felt relieved for the sole fact that he had pronounced them. It was as if he had gotten rid of a heavy burden. He had succeeded in transforming into words what was most profoundly concealed within his mind. And only then, after having revealed his thoughts to that finely decorated room, to the flames and the wood crackling, to the books that hid in their pages secrets virtually more murky than his, to the curtains which sheltered him from the outer world, to the man who never ceased to look at him with something that Will could qualify as adoration in his eyes, only then, as if struck by an epiphany, he could truly be sincere with himself: what disturbed him, what he could not swallow, what choked him was not the murders, not even the responsibility he felt towards the victims, but the fact he had to assume the point of view of those killers: they had no method, they didn't have the necessary skills, their euphoria derived from a mixture of fear, panic and a fake perception of power. What scared him wasn't to kill, but to end a life in a negligent, clumsy way, without an accurate design.

The clock ticked rhythmically.

For some minutes the two men stayed still, one still paralyzed by his recent discovery, the other one enchanted by the creature that came to life in front of his eyes.

Than panic overtook Will. He stood up, picked up his jacket and, without turning back, took his leave and closed the door behind him.

 

 

_He sat on the porch. The tree branches stood out against the sky, without stars and lit only by the gleam of a wide full moon. All around there was silence. The only noise: his breathing and the sighs of the creature sitting on his left._

_Its horns blend in with the landscape, its red eyes stood out like embers. It reached out its hand: it was elegant, it's back decorated by veins, its tapered fingers and well-groomed nails. It grabbed Will's forearm and guided it in front of his face. It examined the palm and the wrist, than went to the elbow. When Will saw its two nostrils widen and flare, he realized that the creature was smelling him. A strong sense of uneasiness permeated him and his body reacted by shuddering. The creature strengthened his hold and continued in its probing. It brushed with its nose his bicep and stopped for a long time under his armpit, where the sweat accumulated with obstinacy._

_A moan was heard, but no one could tell from which mouth it had escaped._

_The creature went up still; his face seemed to fit in the hollow between his shoulder and neck like a piece of clay moulded on his curves; its horns blended with his curls. Will brought his free hand to caress the creature's back. He felt its well defined muscles and the almost infernal warmth emanating from its limbs. His hand slid up and down. He felt the creature tremble under his touch, release a hot sigh against his throat. Will used his fingernails. He drew deep grooves along that smooth flesh. The creature opened his mouth and gently bit him; it was like being in the grips of a vampire, its steady arms and its canines grazing his skin. Will felt a fluid infiltrating under his nails. Curious, he brought his hand in front of his face: his fingers were covered in black. He didn't have much time to examine the substance before the creature pounced on his palm, pull out his tongue and started to lick every surface and crevice, to clean every phalanx; and last laid its lips carefully on his pulse and suckled: and noticed the blood that with even greater impetus flowed into his veins._

_Their breaths became laboured._

_When the creature looked up at him, Will saw hunger, desire, devotion. He grabbed that half human, half animal face. He could almost cut his thumbs caressing those cheekbones, become blinded by gazing into those orbs._

_Then the creature leaned forward and captured his lips._

_The tinny taste of blood burst into his mouth, the rich, velvety smell of that dark skin intoxicated his senses. He lost himself in that aggressive embrace, struggled to take the upper hand, let himself be dominated. With one hand he grabbed its neck, while laying the other on its lower back. The creature's nails tore into his shoulders. It was not just a kiss: it was a true battle, with weapons and wounded, where violence reigned, fighting for supremacy, where no one wanted to yield one millimetre._

_But not all wars were resolved with a winner and a loser._

Will sweetened his movements; he transformed what had been a suffocating embrace into an act of pure veneration. He melted even more when he felt the creature mimic his attitude, massage his scalp, and revere his lips.

It was no longer a conflict. It was a truce, it was a deal, the sealing of a pact. It was an alliance.

 

 

When he arrived at the crime scene, Will noticed immediately the Bentley parked on the side of the road.

He hadn't seen Hannibal since their last session. The morning after he had phoned him to cancel their following appointment and from then on he had not contacted the psychiatrist nor answered to his calls. Their last conversation had disconcerted him. He didn't know how to behave. He was aware that his confidence was safe, if not for the friendship that had started to establish between them, at least for the professional secrecy that bound therapist and patient. But that was not the heart of the matter. During the last days Will had thought many times about the doctor's reaction and, although the acceptance had given him such relief to make even his nights more peaceful, he realized that something he had read in that look went well beyond what a psychiatrist should have let transpire. That admiration was not addressed to the fact that Will had finally understood something new about himself, had succeeded in describing it with words and had stopped to suppress it. Something told him that Hannibal had found the content of his confession interesting for a completely different reason, which Will had yet to grasp; and not knowing, not being able to penetrate into his psychiatrist's thoughts left him at the same time baffled and hesitant, but also wrapped in an aura of uncertainty and curiosity that fascinated him.

He went beyond the yellow tape and headed towards Jack. The man was shouting orders to the agents, coordinating the work of the scientific team and at the same time trying to keep the journalists as far away as possible from the crime scene. His job was an exhausting one, nerve-proof, and Will was somewhat sorry for him. He knew there were few men in the world who had Jack's charisma and determination and that only he could guide the FBI unit of behavioural science in that moment. But knowing his family situation, the strong relationship between him and his wife and that damn third wheel that had suddenly appeared and was threatening to break their bond and their life, Will could not help but feel some compassion in his regards.

When his boss sighted him, he approached.

"Harold Fenster, forty-seven years, psychiatrist. He carried out his practice some kilometres outside of Baltimore. He was last seen three days ago at a charity gala. No one has heard from him after that."

Jack and Will entered the woods. Beverly, Jimmy and Brian were already examining the corpse.

"He's been here for at least forty-eight hours. The body has started to decompose and considering that it has been subjected to the weather, my estimation of actual time of death may vary. But not by much, anyway." said Price.

"In line with the date of the disappearance." noted Zeller.

"In his stomach there are more larvae than anything else: the murderer has removed every organ." said Katz, opening the wound and pointing her torch inside the cavity.

Will's feet seemed to have sank into the ground. He couldn't take another step; he stopped a few meters from the body. Small drops of sweat poured along his back, his hands froze along his hips; his glasses threatened to slide down his nose, but Will had no strength to straighten them. He felt like a statue, a figure set free from a single, solid piece of marble.

In the distance, behind the trees, in the darkness of the leaves and bushes, camouflaged, not seen, its hooves breaking the twigs covering the ground without emitting any sound, its breath mingled in the wind and its feathers trembling in the breeze, a black stag was observing the scene.

"Doctor Lecter, could you tell me something about Fenster?" Jack asked.

"I met him a couple of times at some seminaries. A psychiatrist below average, if I may say. I've never heard him express an idea of his own. Apart from my personal judgment, there are some rumours about his study and his relationship with his patients; I know nothing specific, but I'm certain you'll find a lot of people willing to speak ill about him. I'm sorry Jack, but I can't help you any further."

Hannibal stood at Will's left. Like in every other environment and situation, the psychiatrist did not let show anything but calm and security. He didn't say a word to Will, not even hello, and didn't look at him, but his proximity and posture were enough for Will to understand that the doctor was well aware of his presence, he didn't want to ignore him, but he was leaving him the space that in that moment Will needed, so as not to frighten him, but near enough to run to his aid if needed. He had immediately perceived the rigidity and the tension that had taken possessions of the profiler's body and he was trying to convey, through his calm, confident attitude a sense of quiet and relaxation.

"You've given us something to start with." the special agent thanked him; then addressed his team "Price, hurry up and take those pictures; Katz and Zeller, stop examining the scene. Let Will take a look, then you'll continue."

"But there is no need. It's the same modus operandi: laceration along the chest and stomach, hook in the throat. It's the same killer." said Brian.

"Veronica Stemple had all of her organs, even if damaged." specified Jimmy.

"And here there is one single, neat cut. And the blade used is certainly much shorter: you can see the signs left by the handle on the sides of the wound. I would suggest a Swiss Army knife, or something similarly small." Beverly pressed on.

"Obviously he's more confident: this is his second victim. And regarding the organs, there is a chance the first time he had no time to remove them, maybe he risked being discovered. Or maybe he's evolving." Brian went on, certain of his theory "No information leaked out on the newspapers, even Freddie Lounds could publish nothing on her site; and even if she had been able to take a picture and divulge it, certainly no one could have seen the hook in the throat of the victim. No one but Miss Stemple's killer would be able to recreate the crime scene down to the smallest detail."

"Will?"

The profiler roused at the voice of his boss. His colleagues looking at him, waiting for his opinion.

_A pair of hands grabbed his hips, the well-groomed nails impressed small half-moon shapes on his flesh; a lean, well-defined chest adhered to his back. A burning, intimate blanket; a pair of lips brushed his nape, its mouth opened, its puff humid, its breath faster and faster._

"It's not the same man." he stated.

Hannibal turned towards him and for the first time that day he met his eyes. He said nothing. He didn't try to help him. He wanted to observe his moves, study them, and admire the first steps of that new, fascinating creature.

Brian was about to retort, but Will anticipated him.

"He's more confident, more prepared. He made his victim harmless before dedicating himself with precision and concentration to his scheme. He didn't let himself be taken by fury, nor by panic. Every movement of his, every action is precise, calculated. Everything has its meaning. Fenster lured him with his mellifluous talks, he tried to open his mind, and he made him regurgitate words on which the psychiatrist fed. But those were only a bait, used by the killer to lure his prey. He fooled him, as the psychiatrist had fooled him. He emptied him, as the psychiatrist wanted to empty him. And he did all of this in the neatest way possible, without leaving any traces; because therapy doesn't leave any visible marks. Search among his patients, it could be the result of a therapy gone wrong."

"Will, I want to know if I have to hunt down two killers or if there is only one madman." said Jack, who demanded an immediate answer.

Will turned towards Hannibal. In his eyes he noticed, under a thick veil of composure, the same reverent look revealed during their last session. The doctor had witnessed his birth, his first tentative contacts with the world, had admired his uncertain gestures, his actions and how they had gained more and more strength and firmness. Will knew he had been recognized. And he didn't care. The thrill of having been exposed was accompanied by the conviction that the only one who could see his true face was the one whose face was itself blurred behind a thick, red velvet curtain.

"There's only one madman, Jack."

 

 

Hannibal poured the wine into two glasses and offered one to Will.

"Let's have a toast in honour of Jack and the FBI for having captured Veronica Stemple's and Harold Fenster's killer." he offered, with a malicious smile on his lips.

"I'm sure that Mr Brixton has thought about killing his psychiatrist many times. I've had the pleasure of chatting with him during the conference and I really can't imagine how anyone could possibly spend his money to waste one hour of his time in the company of that man."

"We are so busy loathing Doctor Chilton that sometimes we forget there are people who are even more detestable. As arduous a challenge as it is."

"I would not be surprised if one day Doctor Chilton will meet the same end as his colleague." commented Will, sipping from his glass.

The two men exchanged a knowing look.

Alex Brixton had been captured the same evening Doctor Fenster's body was found. One look at the psychiatrist's records and a cross search with Miss Stemple's acquaintances had nailed that simple crook. Accused of both the homicides, he had opened his eyes wide and tried to defend himself, but the fact that he could not provide an alibi for the night before the finding of the woman's body, nor for the estimated day of the man's disappearance, didn't help to clear him. The two corpses were similar as day and night, but the fact that the FBI could somewhat associate the modus operandi with the work of the accused, the fact the man's ability to use knife of various types and sizes and, not last, the fact that Jack wanted to close the case quickly and trusted Will's judgment so much to omit every objection done by Price and Katz, made sure that Brixton was blamed for both the murders with no way out.

"I thought it was all a dream." confessed Will.

Hannibal laid his free hand on his nape and started to massage his still slightly strained muscles. He saw Will's shoulders sink, his neck stretch.

"Your mind was not ready to accept reality. A common self-defence mechanism."

Will returned with his mind to the woods, the pale body, the blade held tight in his fist. He saw again the terror in the man's face, his comprehension, his surrender. He relived the instance in which he carved with a single gesture with his small knife the psychiatrist's body, the instance in which he spread the wound open and penetrated that warm, humid stomach with his arm; he felt the blood wet his skin, saw the life abandon those weak limbs. He felt pleasure. He felt powerful.

Hannibal grabbed Will's glass and laid it down with his own on the small table between the two armchairs. Then he took Will's face in his hands and forced him to look into his eyes.

Once Will would have hated such a gesture, such a constraint; he would have felt naked in front of those eyes, he would have lost himself within those dark irises, he would have instinctively tried to understand every secret concealed by those pupils. Now instead he welcomed it as a gift. He saw the curtains open. One man was on the stage, without costume, without clothes, naked, his skin the only layer supporting his form and his flesh. He appeared in all his fragility. And yet he wasn't weak, he didn't need protection. He was a creature used to surviving alone, whose natural habitat was darkness, whose first instinct was to hunt. His hands were black, covered by a dense fluid which Will had learned to recognize: he could smell it, he could taste it. And that magnificent, elegant creature, with his fluid, precise movements, was revealing himself to him, was offering himself to his eyes, searching for acceptance and comprehension. Will saw a pair of horns pop up from the straight hair, grow longer and thicker, stretching towards him and opening like the branches of a tree pursuing the sun.

"I would have loved to be there, to assist to your weaning: to see you in all your glory."

Will's eyes became wet. He fought the instinct to blink: he didn't want to break their connection. He took the right decision, because in the doctor's eyes he could see his own emotion reflected back.

With one hand he caressed the well-defined cheekbones, with the other he untied the tie knot and opened the shirt's first two buttons; he threaded his fingers under the collar, stroked the first vertebrae of the spine and followed their path. At the height of the shoulder blades he found the five tracks that his nails had engraved on that skin. He scratched at them with urgency. He saw Hannibal's pupils dilate, two deep lakes in which to swim and drown. He brought his blood stained fingertips to his mouth. He quivered when he saw the doctor's tongue peep out from his sculpted lips. He licked his fingers clean. Then he grabbed his glass and took a sip of wine.

"A perfect match."

Hannibal smiled. His eyes were greedy, lustful, and lascivious. He brought his face close to Will's and with the tip of the tongue licked at his lower lip, where a drop threatened to fall along his chin. He let a satisfied sound slip away.

"They stand out for each other."


End file.
